We’ve all heard about the Virgin & the Volcano. You know the story, lonely girl who can’t get a date gets tossed into a volcano to appease the angry Gods? Or how about those old movies where a Voo Doo Priestess curses some guy with bad ju ju?  And it seems like every time something kinda creepy happens on CSI or Law & Order, they blame it on some obscure Santeria ritual.

Rituals are everywhere. Kate Smith sings God Bless America at important Flyers games. We air our grievances at Festivus and Mom watches each new season of The Bachelor while declaring that “she isn’t going to watch this crap anymore”.

I, being a complex puggle, with many layers (like an onion or an ogre) have my own rituals. If I am given a treat that I truly LOVE, I like to play with it until that rat-sneak Felix starts eyeing it up and coveting it for his own. I always turn in a circle – twice – before I do my business and I like to nuzzle at Mom’s neck when I am feeling all puggley snuggley. I, Kolchak T Puggle, while appearing wondrously interesting and exotic to you, dear readers, am actually a creature of habit and ritual.

My day begins at 6 am, when the alarm goes off, spewing forth a cacophony of horrific sounds. Mom greets the day with all the enthusiasm of a dog about to have his temperature taken and she will sleep through any alarm of pleasant music, so she sets her alarm to the harshest buzzing/dinging/beeping noise she can find or if she is feeling playful and doesn’t really have anywhere to be – the “Buddha Says” ring tone. So every morning, alarm goes off and I jerk awake, spastically flailing about trying to get oriented and figured out what that Dog-awful noise is. When my heart slows to a reasonable pace, I quit gasping for breath and then I give my Mom the Look. You know the one I mean. This one:

 ”I can’t believe you woke me, you jerk.”

After I have made sure that Mom fully appreciates the *height* of my displeasure but heaving an angry, huffy sigh and burying myself under the covers so that I don’t have to face the harsh light of day, Mom goes and puts her face on. I do not know why she takes her face off, or frankly why these female humans even come with removable faces. My Mom looks waaaaaaaaaaaaaay better with hers on. Without it, she looks a little reminiscent of Heath Ledger as the Joker or that Jason kid in those Friday the 13th movies. I tell ya, it was enough to give a pup nightmares, until I realized that she is the same Mommy with or without her face.

She gets dressed, fills our Kibble Eggs and then, it begins:

The Guilting.

Look at those faces?! How can she even CONSIDER leaving those faces?!?!

~*~Oh. What is that you say? Mom goes to see the horrible Job person to buy the kibbles? Really? And the TREATS?! OMD – and the TOYS?~*~What are you WAITING FOR Lady? Get your butt to work! You’ve got places to go, people to see! GO! GO! GO! ~ and bring me a treat when you come back please!

It is a long day without Mommy, but we manage to fill it somehow with naps, treats and but scratches from Nana. Then, my internal puggley clock strikes Mommy o’clock and I KNOW! It’s almost time! Mommy is coming home!! ~*~happy dance~*~ I situate myself on the back of the couch overlooking the entry way ( a location strictly verboten when Mom is home, but open to negotiation with Nana) and I wait. I hear Mom coming before I see her and I start my excited dance. I am part beagle. I can BAROOOOOOO with the best of them and when my Mom finally comes home, I like to let loose my best Snoopy style howl. Not really because Mom is home (though she likes to flatter herself and believe this one is all her) but because IT’S SUPPER TIME! All day long, I have only batted at my Kibble Egg, crunching on a couple kibbles here and there, but when Mom gets home “It’s Suppertime! Yeah! It’s Suppertime! Oh, it’s sup-sup-suppertime; the very best time of day!” 

After a short snuggle break and some “Mommy & Koly Flipover Time”, I ask, nay DEMAND, that Mom “serve me my supper wench!”  I wait patiently (ie. whining, complaining and giving her “the eyes”) while Mom prepares our dinner. She serves us our home cooked grub and I attack my bowl with the voracity of brides-to-be attacking the last Vera Wang at a trunk show. (Sorry, Mom’s watching Bridezilla while we type, so hard to keep a Mommy focused. Mine obviously needs more training. I’m considering an electric shock collar – a device that I would never use on doggy’s but  that might be helpful in training a willful Mom. Look, it’s either that or elephant tranquilizers and I hear that stuff’s expensive!)

We hang out in the evenings with no set routine. Walk? Park? Snuggles on the couch? Who knows. Everyday is something new, but no matter what we do, there will come a point in the evening, when I get up, look Mom right in the eye defiantly, and BARK.

Take a hint Lady! I’M TIRED!! You got me up at 6!

She usually ignores me. She is living under the deluded impression that she, and not I, am in charge of this house. ~*~ROTFLMTO~*~ Riiiiiiiiiight. Sure you are Mom. Whatever makes you feel better.

Mom pretends that she is not riddled with guilt over refusing to join me in bed, loving me and cuddling me, but I know better. I snuggle onto my cushion at the foot of the bed and wait….3….2….1…There she is. Mommy crawls into bed, invites me to join her and together we snuggle our way to sweet Zs.

Dear Lord, I *hope* she forgot to set the alarm. I hate waking up in such an undognified manner.

Sweet Dreams and Happy Tomorrows,

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